In fairness, Arcady has put this misapprehension in context.
To Hermione the thin sound of the reed-flute always had suggested Arcady.
It was an hour in Arcady––just one hour without past or future.
This "bank-note world," to them, is Arcady, and their lives are sweet and simple as pastoral hymns!
It is a Siberian Arcady; but an Arcady without its poetic romance.
I don't know where Arcady is, but it is a pretty sounding place.
The scene is laid in Arcady and at Westminster; time, between 1700 and 1882.
Little Arcady did not know what he could do, but it had faith that he would do something if he were pushed hard enough.
It is a veritable Flute of Arcady blown with a breath of joy.
But my Arcady, as you will see, is none the less tolerably broad and eclectic in its limits.